Spectacular Spiderman: One Last Dance
by Europiam
Summary: Season 4. Three years have passed since Jason was killed, crime fallen to a record low, and Perter has never been happier. He has given up being Spiderman, and now has a full time job at the Bugle. But then a mysterious man contacts Jonah, demanding balance, and Peter is unwillingly drawn back into the fight. Rated T for adult themes, violence, and mild language. PLEASE REVIEW!
1. Chapter 1: The Balance, Part I

**Spectacular Spiderman: One Last Dance**

**Chapter 1: The Balance, Part 1**

* * *

_This story takes place approximately three years after the events of Spiderman: WCYT. Peter has moved into his own apartment with Rosie, and Harry has reclaimed ownership of OSCORP, with Wilson Fisk stepping back to become a majority shareholder. Mary-Jane did not take to Jason's death well, becoming a recluse for nearly four months, until she moved in with Gwen and Harry at their house. Harry and Peter do not speak at all now, and Harry has severed almost all connections to him, with Gwen acting almost as the go between. At the Bugle, Jonah promoted Peter to official photographer, and an occasional article writer, which now longer limits him to photographing Spiderman, who, in any case, hasn't been needed for nearly two years, and Peter has toyed with the idea of giving it up several times. _

_**(N.B. I placed the events is Spiderman: WCYT at about 2012-ish, since there is no actual time frame given in the series, as far as I know. This series begins in early 2015.)**_

* * *

Peter sat in the cramped kitchen, a newspaper lying discarded on the table besides him, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands. The TV was on, playing quietly to a room that was barely focussing on it anyway. It was Saturday, 11:45, and Peter had to be a work in about an hour, and with Manhattan traffic, it would take him ages to get across town, even on Jason's bike. Peter cocked his head, a little bemused, a little amused that he still referred to it as Jason's bike, even though it had been his for about a year and a half.

He glanced at the paper, and slid it across the table to face him, and he idly scanned the headline. It wasn't very exciting. For a few weeks after Whisper's death, Spiderman had come down extra hard on the criminals of Manhattan, and it seemed to have put most people off.

Peter glanced at his watch, and sighed. He wasn't even fully dressed and he should be going soon. Should.

He stretched lazily, and got pushed back his chair, running a hand through his hair, which was growing too long. Combine that with the loose, baggy clothes he was wearing, the glasses, and the scruffy beard, Peter now looked like something out of the 1970's. He climbed the cast iron spiral staircase up to the landing, and slowly walked across to his and Rosie's bedroom. Due to the limited space and funds, they could only afford to buy a one-bedded apartment. It had been awkward at first, but they quickly got used to sleeping together.

Peter quietly pushed open the door and peered inside the gloomy room, the only light being what was being allowed to filter through the curtains. Rosie was still very much asleep, softly snoring with her face buried in the pillow. Peter smiled ruefully, and tiptoed across the room, heading for the wardrobe that stood at the foot of the bed. He slid it open slowly, and pulled out a simple charcoal shirt and jeans, before he softly closed it. Rosie snorted in her sleep and Peter heard the rustling of the sheets as she moved around, before the familiar snore drifted through the air again. Peter stood and made for the door, gently closing it behind him. He headed back down stairs and changed quickly.

He heard feet in the stairs, and a very bleary eyed Rosie was making her clumsy way down.

"Morning Sunshine," Peter smirked and glanced at his watch.

"Or, afternoon," he amended. Rosie grunted something which vaguely resembled speech and made a beeline for the coffee machine, whilst Peter hunted for his keys and phone. After looking in about three places and still being evaded by his items, he stood at one end of the kitchen, a little irritated.

"Hey, Rosie?"

"Uh?"

"You seen my keys?"

She shook her head, turning her back on him and Peter fought hard to suppress a smile.

"You _really_ aren't a morning person."

He swiftly climbed the stairs and entered the bedroom again. Picking his way around discarded clothes, he saw the corner of his iPhone showing from beneath an unwashed T-shirt. He scooped up both the shirt and his phone, and heard a light jangle as something hit the floor.

"How'd they get there?" he muttered, bending to pick them up off the floor, and stuffing them into his pocket.

He slung the T-shirt over his shoulder, and crossed the room again. He balled up the T-Shirt as he descended the stairs, and, when he reached the kitchen, lobbed it at the washing basket in the corner of the living room.

Rosie seemed to have woken up since her shot of caffeine, and now resembled a human being. She had pushed her hair off her face, and now sat upright at the table, her legs crossed, the newspaper lying open in front of her.

Peter noted that she was wearing a loose T-Shirt, but her legs were bare.

"I'm okay thanks," Rosie said, a little pointedly, but still half smiling, "My legs are fine too."

"Don't need to tell me that," Peter replied, a roguish grin curving his lips.

Rosie didn't answer, and simply raised one eyebrow, taking a sip of coffee.

Peter crossed to the door, and moved to swing it open, when Rosie spoke up.

"Oi, aren't you forgetting something?"

Peter turned, to see her sitting rather expectantly. Laughing, he crossed over to her and pecked her on the cheek but she pulled him back and planted a full kiss on the lips.

"That's what I wanted," she said playfully.

Peter raised one eyebrow and scooped up his helmet, holding it under one arm.

"See ya later Rosie," he called as he exited, "Love you!"

He jogged down the front steps, and made for the car park across the street, to where Jason's, or his, bike was sat.

He yanked back the dust cover and stood, gazing at the vehicle. He still remembered the first day Jason showed it to him, and the breakneck speed at which he rode it. A small nostalgic smile curved across the boy's lips as he clambered aboard, and slid the helmet on, flipping down the visor.

"_I should really be wearing proper biking gear," _He thought to himself, "_But in this traffic, it's not like I can go very fast." _

And with that, Peter opened the throttle, feeling the bike engine growling between his legs, urging him onto the roads.

"Easy there girl," he said, patting the bike's fuel tank. Then he pushed off, and weaved his way through the mêlée that was Manhattan traffic.

...

Meanwhile, at the Bugle, Jonah was in one of his trademarked bad moods.

"**MISS BRANDT! WHERE THE DEVIL HAS PARKER GOT TO! HE'S 18.7 SECONDS LATE, I SWEAR TO GOD, I DON'T KNO****W**** HOW THAT LAZY, UNCO-OPERATIVE, UGLY..."**

And so on, and so on...

Betty Brandt sighed as she typed away on her computer. Despite what Jonah had said, Peter was actually one of their best workers, and, now he'd aged a bit... well, let's just say she wouldn't mind. Shame he was with that Rosie girl.

She looked up as the door opened, and smiled warmly when sure that it was Peter. His helmet was under his arm, and his hair was tousled, his glasses a little askew.

"Hey Betty," he said, smiling.

"Hi Pete," she replied. Peter crossed the room to her desk, and they started to talk, as they usually did.

"I could hear that ol' JJ's in a fine mood," Peter said ruefully, "Well, I think most people could hear."

Betty laughed and shook her head, "You know Mr. Jameson, he's a little rough about the edges, but he's got a heart of gold."

Peter raised his eyebrows, but didn't say anything.

"He _does," _Betty insisted, in reply to Peter's look.

"I'm sure he does," Peter said mildly, "Anyway, I'd better get to work. I've got some pretty good shots, and I'd like to get this article finished."

"You mean the one should have already written," Betty teased.

"Hush you," Peter said with mock sternness, before he turned and crossed back to his desk. He sat down and flipped open his laptop, setting his camera down beside him and plugging it in.

The door to Jonah's office suddenly burst open and several interns were sent scuttling away, accompanied by Jonah's characteristically measured tones.

"**WHY THE HELL WOULD I WANT THAT CRAP ON MY FRONT PAGE? IT'S AN OUTRAGE! GET OUT MY OFFICE!" **

Peter hunched his shoulders, half-hoping Jonah wouldn't see him, but sure enough:

"**PARKER!"**

"Yes?"

"**WHERE'S YOUR ARTICLE? THE ONE YOU SHOULD HAVE WRITTEN YESTERDAY?"**

"Um, well, you see, er-," Peter squirmed uncomfortably in his chair as he searched for an answer. Betty giggled.

"**I DON'T WANT TO HEAR YOUR EXCUSES!" **Jonah bawled, and he strode from his office, his face a picture of exasperation, **"GOD, YOU PEOPLE JUST MAKE ME SO _ANGRY _SOMETIMES, I NEED SOME AIR."**

And with that he took two steps into the elevator, and pushed the button for the atrium, still ranting and raving, until that sound finally trailed away.

Peter turned around to face Betty, one eyebrow raised.

"Heart of gold, right?" Betty simply shrugged, a little helplessly.

…

Jonah returned about half an hour later, an everyone stopped talking and hurriedly looked back to what they were supposed to be doing, as if they were ill-behaved school children and the head-master had just walked in.

Jonah scowled, and he purposefully walked back inside his office, slamming the door behind him. A low murmur of voices broke out again, and Jonah stuck his head around the door.

"**DO I PAY YOU PEOPLE TO TALK?!" **he bellowed, **"WE ARE NOT A CHAT SHOW, NOW GET TO WORK! I NEED A FRONT PAGE. _AND MAKE IT GOOD THIS TIME!" _**

He slammed the door to his office and turned to face his desk again. Except his desk was no longer there. Neither was his office. Instead the room had been replaced by a dark, black granite lined room, which was lit only by a few candles on a long, black-wood table. The room was empty, save for one man, who sat at the head of the long wooden slab.

"_Good afternoon Mr Jameson." _The figure said, "_Please, take a seat."_

Jonah did not sit. Instead he examined the figure sat before him. He was dressed in all black, and by that, it meant literally everything. Black suit, black shirt, black waistcoat. The only thing of another colour were his gloves and tie, both of which were a bright, deep scarlet. The only thing that was not visible was hid face, which was hidden in a shaft of utter darkness.

"Who are you?" said Jonah, in an uncharacteristically quiet voice.

"_My name is not the concern here," _The figure replied calmly, _"I have a far bigger matter to discuss with you."_

"Which are?" Jonah asked roughly.

"_Please, Mr Jameson," _The man said, his fingers steepled on the table before him, _"There is no need to be so abrasive, and, in any case, I am not intimidated by you." _

"_But, to answer your question, we need the Spiderman."_

Jonah gave a harsh bark of laughter, "Good luck, d'you know how many have tried?"

"_I do indeed, but this is nothing personal, nor is it business."_

Jonah folded his arms, and raised an eyebrow, "Then why do you want him?"

"_I am balance Mr Jameson," _The man said calmly, _"For every action, there is, and must be, an equal and opposite reaction. It is, and has always been, the way of the universe. The same rule applies to the forces of good and evil."_

The man seemed to lean forward, but his face was still hidden.

"_I have watched Earth for sometime. It is the only planet with sentient life for thousands of light years in all directions, and, as such, contributes to the universal scales of Karma in a fundamental way. This planet's scale has swayed for millennia, and has been in place ever since the first human climbed from the primordial slime. However, the scale has almost always balanced out, and, when it has not I have been forced to step in, and... remedy... the situation. But now, due in part to the actions of Spiderman and his team, the scales now tip towards the lighter side of Karma. They are, to summarize, out of balance."_

"But, one of them was killed, wouldn't that help balance these... scales? Or what ever the ruddy hell you call them?"

"_Unfortunately, no. His death was one of the most important actions in destroying the equality. It was an act of noble self-sacrifice, and he saved several others in his death. This influx of good severely diminished evil." _

"And that's surely a good thing, right?"

"_Incorrect. There must always be evil, but there must be an equal amount of good. I did not decide this, it is the way the universe must be."_

"And why will destroying Spiderman help your precious balance?"

"_He is, aside from what Whisper accomplished, the source of most of the good done on this earth. There are other, less important factions, who attempt to commit good, but have become so lost in the struggle they no longer see the boundaries, and will contribute to each side in equal measure."_

"_It seemed as if the alien Carnage could have been the rectifier to this problem, and all the atrocities he caused did indeed sway the bias. However, with his subsequent defeats, the scales remain unbalanced. Killing, or removing the Spiderman will dishearten the population, and invigorate the criminals of this town. They will rise, and several other heroes will rise and fall. The Earth will in once again be in equilibrium."_

"And how do I fit into all this?" Jonah was still sceptical.

"_You have been at the spearhead of a campaign which has always been against the Spiderman, but the public still supports this despite your best efforts. Your job is to turn as much of the population against Spiderman as you can. The ones who refuse to believe your propaganda will have their spirits crushed by Spiderman's demise." _

"And how do I do that? He's too popular, the people love him."

"_I will deal with that. Three weeks from now, at this exact time, you will find an unmarked file on your desk. It will contain damning information on the Spiderman, and you may do with it what you wish. Just remember, if you fail to act, it is not just the world at stake, the order of the Universe, in it's entirety, is at stake." _The man clasped his hands together on the desk, and shifted slightly, so that his shoulders fell into the darkness too.

"_Goodbye Mr Jameson. Remember, the fate of the Universe now rests in your hands." _

The room began to fade, until Jonah could see his own office again.

"No, WAIT!" He exclaimed, reaching out a hand, but the figure did not move. Finally the room dissipated, and Jonah was staring at the back wall of his office. He swallowed hard, and crossed over to his desk, seating himself behind it, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and a glass. He never usually drank alcohol, but he felt that he needed it now. He poured himself a large helping and gulped it down, before replacing the cork in the neck of the bottle.

The sun shone outside, and birds sang cheery songs, whilst somersaulting through the air. Jonah however, noticed none of this, as his face looked drawn and pale, and he was staring into space. The final words of that meeting echoed around his mind, and he let his head fall into his hands.

"_The fate of the Universe now rests in your hands..." _

A chilling prospect...

* * *

_**IT'S BACK! :D **_

_(The sheer amount of double entendres in this chapter is very high). _

_I tried to minimize the amount of mistakes, since reading through some of earlier chapters just makes me cringe. My favourite part of writing this chapter was the man who contacted Jonah's dialogue. He allowed me to use some of my more complex vocabulary that did not tie in to any one else's character. _

_Seriously though, I'm actually quiet glad to be writing this stuff again, kinda missed my little universe. These first few episodes are going to be introductory. Very little, or no, action, not until later on unfortunately. (Just to make it clear, the mysterious figure's name is not balance. Most of you will probably have realised this, but I'd rather not take chances.)_

_On another note, I am now allowing (and encouraging) people to ask me questions about the story in the reviews, ask away friends! _

_-Europiam _


	2. Chapter 2: The Balance, Part II

**Spectacular Spiderman**

**Chapter Two, The Balance, Part Two.**

* * *

Peter stood alone, in a black, silent emptiness, utterly devoid of light. He couldn't even see his hand in front of his face, and he groped blindly about him for a few seconds. Then, he felt something change. A slight breath of wind had brushed across his face. Another moment passed, and the darkness seemed to be receding, twisting itself into more familiar shapes, until he stood in what seemed to be Manhattan. This Manhattan was an altogether more imposing city. No lights blinked in the skyscrapers that towered into the skyline. A chilling breeze whipped across the road, kicking up grit and dust into Peter's face. The most surreal thing though, was the absence of all activity. Even in the dead of night, as it appeared to be here, the city was a bustling have of activity. This Manhattan however, was as much a ghost town as a Roman ruin.

Cautiously, Peter made his solitary way down the deserted streets, as if expecting an attack at any moment. Something moved at the end of the street, and Peter tensed. Then he stopped dead when he saw what it was. Spiderman.

This Spiderman was taller, and wore an angular, more sinister costume, with slits for lenses, and a broken-looking web design. He made no sound, and simply watched Peter as he made his wary way toward him.

"Um, hi?" Peter said uncertainly. The Spiderman made no notion of a reply, or that he had even heard him; he just stared at Peter with those creepy eyes.

"Why did you abandon me Parker?" he said suddenly, and his voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.

Peter reared back. He hadn't expected the Spiderman to speak, and the harshness of the voice made his skin crawl.

"I didn't," he protested, spreading his arms wide, "Spiderman is over, you're, um, retired, not abandoned."

"You abandoned me," the Spiderman repeated, "You abandoned all of us."

"Us?" Peter said in a small voice. Then he saw that a small group of figures had gathered behind the Spiderman. Black Cat was there, a cruel, malicious smile plastered across her face, the claws on her costume horrifically exaggerated. Hazardous Dreamer stood at Black Cat's side, her face white and skull-like, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. Her lips were blood red, and dripped crimson onto the road. And finally, Whisper stood in the background, his face hidden in shadow. His cape was huge and tattered, and it whipped around him in a frenzy, as if caught in a hurricane. The inside of his hood was infinitely dark, and the lenses burned a bright, fiery red, distorted so they looked animal-esque; huge, jagged and incredibly unnerving.

"You tried to leave us behind," Dreamer rasped in a death rattle, her skeletal hands extending toward Peter's terrified form.

"Used us, and cast us aside," Black Cat continued, her voice dripping with a sadistic venom.

"But you can never truly abandon us," Whisper said in a snake's hiss.

"We are you," the Spiderman finished, grabbing Peter's collar and pulling him close.

"No," Peter cried, struggling against Spiderman's iron grip. The horrific parodies of his friends just laughed cruelly, and advanced slowly.

"You cannot escape us," Whisper hissed, "We are your soul Parker, we made you."

"Can't escape huh?" Peter said, a little desperately, "Watch me." Using all his strength, he planted his feet against the Spiderman's chest, and pushed. The Spiderman lost his grip and he stumbled backwards, and Peter dropped to the ground. Smugly, Peter turned to run, but Whisper suddenly appeared behind him, moving at an unbelievable speed. He grabbed Peter's leg, and threw him bodily across the street. Peter hit the wall opposite face first. His head snapped backwards, and a wave of unbearable pain shot down his spine.

"Oh no Whisper," Black Cat said with false concern, "You hurt him."

"No matter," Whisper said calmly, as he seem to glide over to Peter's groaning form, "I'll just perform a little surgery."

Peter looked up in time to see Whisper's face melt away. Peter yelped, and scrambled backward, but Whisper grabbed his foot and pulled him back. Whisper's entire body was dripping from him, until the horrific form of Carnage leant over Peter's trembling body.

"Son," Carnage grinned poisonously, and his flexed his lethal-looking claws, "This may sting a little"

Peter awoke with a sudden gasp, drenched in cold sweat. The moon light glinted through a gap in the curtains, and somewhere, far away, an owl hooted into the silence. Peter sat up quickly, and realised he was panting hard, like he'd just run a marathon. He pressed a hand against his chest and felt his heart pounding.

"Just a dream," he murmured, "This is real, not that." A loud snore from Rosie, who was somehow still asleep, seemed to confirm this.

Throwing the covers back, Peter climbed to his feet, and quickly made his way over to where the wardrobe door stood ajar. He rifled through the clothes until he found what he was looking for, an unremarkable looking brown leather briefcase. Flipping open the catches, Peter felt a twinge of anxiety as he swung the lid open. There it was, as it should be. He lifted Spiderman's mask out of its housing and held it in both hands, the words of the nightmare's Whisper still echoing around his head.

"You can never abandon us," he had said, "We made you." Was there more to that than it being the ramblings of a nightmare? Did Spiderman define who he was?

"Pete?" Rosie's sleepy voice drifted from the bed, "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Peter replied hurriedly, stuffing the mask back into the case, and shoving that back into the depths of the closet. He returned to the bed, and Rosie cuddled up close, nuzzling his neck.

"Why are you up?" she murmured, "Normally you sleep like the dead." Peter had to suppress a shiver at the word 'dead' as the image of the skeletal nightmare parody of Dreamer danced across his mind's eye.

"It was just a nightmare," he assured her, "Nothing to worry about."

"Aww, poor Petey," she giggled, "Do you need your teddy?"

"No I do not," Peter said indignantly. Rosie laughed and lightly kissed his neck.

"Relax, I was joking. Seriously though, you sure you're okay? You looked pretty shaken."

"I'm okay," he insisted, "Just go back to sleep."

"You should too."

"I will, it was just a dream, and I'm a big boy now." Nevertheless, it was a long time, long after Rosie's snores had filled the room, that Peter finally fell back into a restless sleep.

Peter awoke to a room filled with blazing sunlight. Groggily, he pushed himself into his elbow and ran a hand through his hair. He fumbled around in the tangled mess of clothes that lay in a heap on the floor, finally extracting his iPhone. He thumbed the unlock button, and stared blearily at the time for a good few seconds before he actually registered it.

11:15. Nearly midday, and he would normally be getting ready for work. Good thing it was a Sunday.

Peter closed his eyes again and flopped back onto the pillows, before he realised his mistake. It wasn't Sunday, it was a Thursday. Crap.

Peter heaved himself from the bed and stood blinking in the sunlight, swaying slightly. He really did not feel like going into work today. He was tired, and he'd forgotten to write another damn article. Sighing, Peter stumped across the landing to the bathroom, where he unceremoniously dumped his clothes on the floor and stepped into the shower. The water hit him, and it was cold. As in, Antarctic chilled water cold. Peter yelped and leapt backwards. He could hear Rosie howling with laughter downstairs, and realised she must have turned off the heat when he was asleep.

Scowling, he wrapped a towel about his midriff, stomped downstairs and glared at Rosie, who was sat behind the table, trying hard to suppress a smile.

"Enjoy the shower?" she asked innocently.

"Yeah," Peter replied sourly, "It was great."

Rosie glanced at her watch and smirked, "Tick tock Petey, you should be going soon."

"I could have been gone sooner if you hadn't messed with the shower," Peter said, raising one eyebrow, but he too glanced at the time. 11:30. Seriously, why does time have an annoying habit of never being there when you need it?

Peter sighed in exasperation and moved swiftly back upstairs, hunting for clean clothes. Rosie took a sip of coffee, and tried not to burst out laughing at Peter's reaction to the cold shower. He still looked sulky as he reappeared in the kitchen, so Rosie leant across and pecked him on the cheek.

"There," she said, "I'm sorry, happy now?"

"Not particularly," Peter replied, half smiling despite himself.

"Go on, be off with you," Rosie said, shooing him with mock disdain.

"As you wish Madam," Peter replied, bowing low to the ground, kissing her briefly, before slamming the front door behind him.

…

Peter had not been looking forward to returning to work today, mainly because of Jonah. Over the past three weeks he had noticed that Jonah had been getting edgy. He looked nervous, and flew off the handle now at even the most negligible provocation, such as when an intern had delivered him an article and had not stapled it together with the staples exactly in line. This behaviour had started to grind Peter down, as he bore the brunt of most of Jonah's rages.

Sighing, Peter sat down at his desk, so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he forgot to talk to Betty, who looked a little crestfallen. Maybe if he kept his head down and just worked today, Jonah would overlook him, after all, he lived in a city where there were men made of electricity, alien symbionts who possessed you, and where he could stick to walls like a spider. It seemed unfair to say stranger things didn't happen.

In actual fact, Peter's misgiving couldn't be more unfounded, as Jonah was dreading coming into to work more so that Peter was. Today was the day. _The_ day. The one his mysterious benefactor had mentioned, when he could get everything he needed to destroy Spiderman. But now the time has come he was not sure he wanted to do this.

Jonah took a deep, steadying breath and entered the Bugle building, crossing the reception, and entering the lift. He thumbed the button for his floor and stared at the opposite wall with a curious sense of anticipation and anxiety. The lift dinged his floor, the doors slid open, and Jonah stared blankly at the office floor, before he shook himself and quickly made his way to his office. _Maybe the file wouldn't be there,_ Jonah reasoned, _This guy has to monitor the universe, he probably forgot. Yeah, he will have forgotten. _

Even in his head the words sounded like he was grasping at straws.

Jonah apprehensively unlocked his office and slipped inside. He glanced around the room and a cold sick feeling dropped into his stomach when he saw the small brown envelope. Slowly, he made his way to his desk and lifted the envelope with trembling hands. Then, he was struck by the sudden feeling that he would rather do anything than open it.

Hurriedly, Jonah ripped open one of his draws and stuffed the envelope inside, locking it feverishly. He stood there for a few moments, breathing heavily, then a cold breeze touched his neck, and a feeling of dread swept through him.

He turned, very slowly, and saw the black granite room stretching out before him.

"_Good afternoon Mr Jameson_," the man in the black suit said quietly. Jonah whipped around and pounded on the walls behind him, if his office was there somewhere, someone should hear him.

"_Please, do not do that,_" the man said calmly, and Jonah's arms snapped to his sides.

"_My apologies, I find it rather distasteful to control people like that, but certain situations call for such measures. Please, take a seat_." The man gestured to his left, and a stiff dark mahogany chair was drawn back. Jonah sat gingerly, and stared at the man, his arms still locked at his sides. The figure clasped his hands on the tabletop before him and spoke again.

"_You haven't done as I asked Mr Jameson,_" The figure said, still speaking in the same calm, measured tones he always seemed to use, but this time, a slightly cold, accusatory note had crept into the man's voice.

"Well, th-these things take time," Jonah stuttered, thinking on his feet, "I-I-I need to think about how I could use the sources, and their, er, their reliability, and also-"

The man held up a hand, and Jonah lapsed into silence.

"_You have not even opened the envelope,_" he said, and their was no missing the cold contempt in the man's voice now, "_You locked it in your desk drawer, and I hypothesize the contents will never see the light of day under your leadership. Luckily, we have already taken precautions against this_."

"We?" Jonah swallowed.

"_Yes Mr Jameson_," the man replied, "_We_." As he spoke, two figures came and stood at the figure's shoulders. A man and a woman, both dressed identically. Long black coats, hoods, and featureless white masks. Jonah found the lack of any facial features unnerving.

"_Do not lie to me Mr Jameson,_" the black suited man continued, "_I always know. Due to your lack of cooperation you have been excluded from this stage of the operation. __Despite your best efforts, everything __will continue according to plan."_

…

In the Bugle Office, Peter heard the sound of Jonah's office door crashing open. He groaned, and looked around, but was surprised to see a huge, smug grin curving across the man's square jaw. To be honest, it scared Peter more that the rants ever did.

"**MISS BRANDT, HAVE YOU SEEN ROBBIE?" **Jonah bellowed in a good-natured fashion.

"Yes, Mr Jameson, he's downstairs, I'll phone him for you now."

"**EXCELLENT!" **he boomed, before turning to the room in general, **"ALRIGHT EVERYONE, TAKE FIVE! I'VE JUST GOT THE STORY OF A LIFETIME AND I'M REWARDING YOU!"**

Everyone exchanged perplexed glances, and the familiar crease lines appeared between Jonah's eyebrows, **"JUST TAKE A DAMN BREAK BEFORE I CHANGE MY MIND." **

Robbie entered through the double doors, and Jonah strode up to him.

"Robbie!" he said in one of his quieter shouts, "Come with me! I've just got something that'll put the Webhead on trail for about a thousand years."

Peter stiffened, as Jonah's office door slammed. Peter got to his feet hurriedly, and burst into Jonah's office.

"**PARKER!" **Jameson and Robbie stared at him. Jonah was holding up a prototype front page that read: "_Spiderman: The __c__riminal he really is."_

He couldn't read the rest of the text, but beneath the headline, he saw himself, as Spiderman, surrounded by dead bodies, his fists covered in blood. His throat tightened as he remembered the incident. It was three years ago, when Whisper was still alive, but had essentially gone solo.

There had been a bank robbery, and Whisper had got there first. Spiderman had stood in the aftermath, utterly horrified. His hands were covered in blood because he'd tried to stop one of the men from bleeding out. There had been no witnesses, and so the photo made him look like he had killed all those people. The very thought made Peter sick to his stomach.

"Peter?" Robbie asked, eyeing him curiously.

"I, um, I-I-I," Peter grasped at the words, desperately trying to form an excuse.

"Maybe you should come back when you remember," Robbie said kindly, and Peter nodded enthusiastically.

"Y-Ye-" Peter swallowed and tried again, "Yeah, I will. Thanks."

He turned and lurched out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

"Oh my God," Betty gasped as Peter exited, "Pete you look terrible, are you okay?"

"What?" Peter said distractedly, "I, er..."

Betty got out her chair and placed a hand against his forehead.

"Pete, you're really pale. Are you feeling okay?"

"No," Pete said breathlessly, "Look, I gotta go, umm, yeah. Like, um, yep." And with that he left, leaving a very confused Betty standing alone in the hall of the Bugle Offices.

…

About an hour later, Peter arrived at a luscious, low lying hill. On the crest was placed a small, unremarkable wooden post, and he knew this as where they had scattered Jason's ashes all those years ago. A small bunch of black roses lay by the cross, and he wondered who had put them there. Probably MJ.

He stood next to the post, gazing into the sky, until he eventually found his voice.

"Hey Jason. Been a long time. I know I haven't been coming here as often as I should have, and I'm sorry man, but it's like, I'm finally happy, I think. I mean, no Spidey, livin' with Rosie. Life's good."

His voice tailed off as he glanced down at the post, which seemed to stare back at him impatiently.

"Yeah, I'm sorry man, you probably don't wanna hear this, and in any case, it's not what I care for," he took a deep, steadying breath, and began.

"I came here, because I feel like I need to get this out into the open, to tell someone, even if you can't hear me. I mean, I could tell Rosie, but I don't wanna worry her."  
"Weird stuff's been going on recently; Jonah's been acting all on edge for weeks, and now from this mysterious source he gets '_the story of a lifetime,'_ which involves me, and the aftermath of one of _your_ messes." He paused, and briefly closed his eyes.

"No, that was unfair, but I'm worried. I've been having nightmares again Jas. I know they're probably nothing compared to yours, but I haven't had one for years, maybe it's a sign." He sighed, and rubbed the back of his head.

"I'm just worried, no. No, not worried: scared. And I know that sounds weak, but I don't want all I've worked for these past few years to come crashing down. I don't want Rosie involved again."

Peter shook his head slightly, and gave a short, bitter laugh, "I'm guess I'm scared the big bad Spiderman will return. I always hoped he had died with you, and, in a sense he did. But in my nightmare, he said something to me. He said: 'I am you.' Is being Spiderman all I am? Is it all I'm destined to do?" Peter looked into the sky, as if pleading it to give him the answers.

"I know you can't tell me everything, well, or anything for that matter, but, as I said, I'm just scared Jas. I'm scared it's gonna happen, that I'll need to be Spiderman again. And to be honest, nothing terrifies me more..."

* * *

_Apologies for the delay, but I had a severe case of Writer's block. I hope this chapter makes up for it. _

_Thank you:_

_~Europiam._


	3. Chapter 3: The Balance, Part III

**Spectacular Spiderman: One Last Dance**

**Chapter Three: The Balance, Part III**

* * *

Wilson Fisk was not happy. For once, he felt like his current situation was out of his control, which was a position he abhorred. The criminal underworld had all but disbanded, leaving him with a few mere pickpockets and vagrants, hardly the high-calibre soldiers he had previously had in his employ. OSCORP had been lifted out of his grasp, back into the hands of that brat Harry Osborn. All he had left unto him was his son, who was growing increasingly impatient with his father. Fisk had considered turning him over to the police to relieve his son of his boredom, but there no profit to be made in doing so.

It was then Fisk noticed that something in the room had changed. His eyes narrowed, and he scanned the office slowly, before alighting on what it was. The light level flickering, which was most peculiar, as the lights he had installed were powerful LED clusters. They should not flicker. He also noted that the light seemed to have a different quality to it. The LEDs threw out a clean, artificially bright white colour, whereas the light that filled the room now had an orangey/yellow colour, almost like... torchlight.

Fisk frowned. The room was definitely changing, it seemed to be getting darker, the walls blackening as the light appeared to recede. But then he realised; the room wasn't changing. It was almost if another one was, well, replacing it. His plaster-covered white walls being covered by black granite, his desk, papers, and computers switched with a long table of dark mahogany.

"Most intriguing," Fisk muttered, as he put out a hand for the table, and was mildly surprised to find it solid, "So this is real, not one of Mysterio's illusions."

"_As real as you__rself, __Mr Fisk," _A voice said from the back of the room, a place where the shadows held dominion.

"I presume that you are the cause of this phenomenon," Fisk said calmly, surprisingly so for someone who has just had there office manipulated into something completely new. He drew up a chair and sat at the table.

"Please," he continued, steepling his fingers, "Tell me how you accomplished this feat."

"_I do not think this requires explanation," _The voice replied, "_A man with intelligence such as yours should already have a theory." _

"As a matter of fact I do," Fisk said, "I assume it is transportation of some form, teleportation if you will. I also estimate that, despite appearances, it is _I _that had been moved, not the office."

"_Partially correct," _The voice replied, and Fisk peering hard into the darkness, thought he could make out a black suited man, complete with scarlet gloves and tie.

"_This room exists in a place between dimensions. The place your scientists like to call Limbo. This is why the room must be completely sealed, otherwise it would be torn apart by the Event Horizon. Humans suffer a similar fate, which is where this process gets a little more, convoluted." _

"Please, continue," Fisk said, waving a hand.

"_To avoid the risks of you having to travel through Limbo, this room has to be shifted through the vacuum. At this moment, you have not actually moved at all. You are in the exact same place you would have been if you were still at your office. This room is residing in the spot where your office would be if it were placed in Limbo, therefore you do not have to brave the dangers this... non-dimension, so to speak, presents."_

"Fascinating," Fisk said, poker faced, "I must ask; how is th-"

"_Enough wasting time," _the suited figure interrupted, _"We have precious little as it is, we cannot __afford__ to let it slip away." _

Fisk narrowed his eyes and stood slowly, his impressive height leading his to towering over the table.

"I do not normally allow myself to be interrupted," he said dangerously.

The man, Fisk assumed he was a man, did not reply, he simply laid his hands on top of one-another on the table before him.

"_Sit down Mr Fisk," _he said calmly, and Fisk legs folded beneath him, so that he collapsed back onto the chair.

"_Do not threaten me again or I will have to temporarily remove your ability to speak, which would be unpleasant for us both."_

"_My goal is simple, we met kill the Spiderman, and I know that you have already attempted this feat multiple times. Yes. I know about Kingpin. We already have one stage of the plan in motion, and it should bear results by the morning. Your input, is to try to get the criminal underworld of this city back into action. We will provide the necessary resources to accomplish an impressive enough action that will bring out both the villains and, if everything goes perfectly, the Spiderman. It will not be easy though, and I sense other forces who will attempt to stop me in this endeavour. They may sabotage the operation. You must not let this happen, the stakes are too high."_

"Hmm, well yes," Fisk said, "But you haven't actually told me what _is _at stake here.

"_The stability of the universe hangs in the balance Mr Fisk, you are to help me restore equilibrium. I expect your answer by tomorrow."_

…

Rosie sat, well, slumped in the single chair of the bedroom. Through eyes that itched with tiredness, she watched Peter's gently snoring form. She was worried about him. He'd come home yesterday

on the verge of a complete mental breakdown. Something huge had happened, and Rosie dreaded finding out what it was. Maybe something had happened at the Bugle. Even though her body cried out for her not to, she rose from the chair and quietly crossed to the cupboard.

"_I so should not be doing this," _she thought to her self, as she rummaged through the clothes, pushing through them to reach the back of the wardrobe. Her fingers brushed against a small, bras handle, and she grasped it, pulling it to one side. Behind the plywood hung the costume of Hazardous Dreamer.

Rosie stared at it, a little hypnotized by its bright colours. Tentatively, she reached for it, then in a sudden movement she ripped it from its hanger and swung the cupboard doors shut. She crept back across the room and swiftly changed, the costume fitting surprisingly well.

"That kids," she murmured, a little smug, "Is why you watch your weight."

Rosie slid open the window and hopped onto the window sill, pausing only to throw a short look back at where Peter slumbered.

"_It'll be okay,_" she thought guiltily, "_He won't know, and it isn't like I'm going full time again, right?"_

She slipped quickly from the window sill, and off into the cool night air.

…

It took her a little over an hour to reach the Bugle Tower, and another to scale the building, leaping from window sill to window sill, until her fingers were scuffed and bloody. This didn't bother her, as she could heal quickly, and anyway, the sharp pinpricks of pain kept her awake.

Eventually, Hazardous Dreamer crouched on the window sill, peering through the dusty, gritty glass into the room beyond. All seemed quiet, but, in the far corner, she could see the blinking red light of a burglar alarm.

She frowned, this is when Whisper was useful, one of the only times, mind you. His technological knowledge even outstripped Peter's, and Whisper would have been able to tell how it worked, what set it off, and how to get rid of it. All she could do was glare at it. Unless...

Dreamer straightened, and began to edge her way across the window sill. When reached the lip, she leapt deftly across to the next one, and continued. And this was all very well and good, until she made the mistake of glancing down. Vertigo hit her like a rampaging elephant, and her hands dug grooves into the brickwork behind her.

"Okay," she murmured, taking deep, steadying breaths, "I'm _really_ quite high up. How did Pete do this?"

Her legs had locked up, and she was clutching the wall so hard the bricks were crumbling underneath her fingers. Rosie felt a twinge of irritation at this. She wasn't used to being the damsel, and she definitely wasn't going to stand here at the mercy of a window ledge. She looked across, and saw the red light blinking smugly at her from a few windows across. Dreamer exhaled slowly, and, ignoring her brain which was crying at her to stay huddled on the ledge, stepped across to the next ledge.

"See?" she assured herself, "Not too hard, it's almost like gymnastics." She found this thought strangely comforting, and she imagined the ledges to be a thin balance beam.

"Nothing to it right?"

She took a tentative step across the beam, then another, then another. The window she needed seemed to shuffle closer, and, eventually, Dreamer felt her foot connect gently with the glass. She crouched down gratefully next to it, and peered inside.

The offending alarm was hidden away in the shadowy corner where the roof and the wall met, huddled into the tiny space. Dreamer slowly slid the window upwards, and she carefully reached up to the alarm, her shoulder straining as she willed her arm to it's fullest extent. Her fingertips brushed the box, and Dreamer's eyes narrowed in concentration. She had a plan, not a particularly good one, but it was all she had.

She had hypothesized that the thing was battery powered, and she could absorb the electricity in the circuit using her power, but therein lay the problem. Dreamer hadn't used her power in nearly three years,so she was obviously out of practice. She might not even be able to do this. He brow furrowed, and she focused hard, willing the electricity from the white oblong box. Nothing happened, and she pushed harder, until, finally, there was a sudden bright electric flash and the red light blinked.

Dreamer realised she was holding her breath, and she released it in one heavy exhale, letting her arm drop back against the window sill. That's when the alarm began to shriek.

Dreamer flinched at the sudden noise, and nearly tumbled backwards off the ledge. What she didn't know was that, whilst many alarms are battery operated, this what had been wired into the mains, and Dreamer's attempt to tamper is what had set it off. She looked around, and realised her situation was far from perfect. She was completely exposed, crouched on a very narrow window ledge, no quick escape routes presented themselves, and the police would already be on their way. Dreamer scanned the surrounding buildings, each one being too far away to jump to, that is, until she looked down.

There was a low-lying block of flats, which nestled close to the Bugle building. The only problem was that it was about 15 metres straight down. Not ideal. But then again, she limited options; beggars can't be choosers.

Dreamer shrugged and steeled herself.

"Here goes nothing," she whispered, and let herself drop. The cold air stung her face as she fell, and the ground rushed gleefully upwards to meet her.

"This was such a bad idea," she groaned, just before she hit the ground. Asphalt flew every as she landed, leaping away from the crater she had made, like water droplets when a pebble is thrown into the sea. She hit the roof badly, and felt her left knee crunch in a sickening way. Pain shot up her thigh, and she toppled sideways. She gasped in pain, and closed her eyes tight, fighting back tears.

"Come on Rosie," she muttered through gritted teeth, "No time for this now."

She staggered to her feet, and began to run, pain leaping through her leg every time her left foot hit the ground. She heard cars screech to a halt on the street below, and chattering voices rose from the Police as they piled out.

"There they are!" one of them cried, and one of the more-trigger happy officers, let fly with his gun.

Bullets ripped through the air, and Rosie had to duck and roll to avoid them, infinitely grateful for the speed boost the alarm had given her. Two officers clambered onto the edge of the roof opposite her, and Dreamer paused. The two officers drew their pistols, and trained their sights on her.

"Stop right there!" One of them called, and Rosie swore under her breath, and she glanced up at the sky apologetically.

"Sorry," she mouthed, before she turned back to face the men.

"Kinda would have like to avoid this," she muttered, and she charged the officers. She punched one in the stomach, grabbed him, and threw him into his partner. They both flew backwards, and impacted against the railing with a metallic clang.

"Sorry guys," she muttered, before she leapt across to the opposite building, and sprinted into the night, the police hot on her heels.

…

Peter felt the void envelop him again, the twisted Manhattan city rearing out of the darkness. He felt the irrational fear claim him again and he backed into a corner, trembling.

"Oh, Peter, you came back," hissed a gleeful voice in his ear.

"Oh no," Peter moaned.

"They didn't believe us when we said you'd come back," Carnage whispered, trailing one of his long talons, across Peter's neck, "And now we've got you all to ourselves."

Carnage grabbed Peter's throat, and threw bodily him across the street, so that he landed in a heap against the opposite building.

"Look Peter," Carnage said, grinning maliciously and spreading his hands wide, "Do you think you can defeat us here? Chaos feeds on fear, and when do you feel more fear than in a nightmare?"

Carnage pulled Peter towards him, and his claws glinted in the moonlight. Peter was so close he could feel Carnage's breath on his face. It smelled of blood, poison, and the acrid stench of sulphur.

Carnage placed one finger against Peter's stomach, and his cruel smile spread.

"When you get to the other side, tell the Almighty we said 'Hey'."

Peter felt his stomach being ripped open, as Carnage dragged claw upwards. Shuddering, Peter collapsed to the floor, his torso an inferno of pain. Carnage was laughing maniacally, as something dark oozed from the wound.

But it wasn't blood. It looked like a thick, black smoke, that leaked from Peter's abdomen. It billowed into the air, filling the open space, covering all in its sticky black coating. Peter couldn't see, he stumbled around in the darkness, his stomach felt as if it was on fire. Then, there was a howling wind, and Peter felt himself thrown off his feet, and taken high into the air. The tendrils of smoke writhed and twisted all around him, and then they began to pour back into the wound. Peter screamed as the cut was forced open wider still, and then, suddenly, all was silent, and Peter was left was kneeling on the cold floor, clutching his midriff and shaking, nearly sobbing.

He could have been sat there for days, time seemed irrelevant here. He knelt there until the pain finally receded, and he felt strong enough to stand. This place was cold and empty, but blissfully silent. No-one to torture his body, soul, or mind, just final, joyous silence.

Then a cold feeling of dread swept over hi as he saw another figure kneeling on the cold floor, their head bowed. They wore a skinny fit denim jacket, and black skinny jeans. Their hair was jet black, messy and choppy at the back, and the fringe swept down over one eye, intersected by a slash of electric blue.

"Jason?" Peter asked hoarsely, the weakness of his own voice surprising him.

"Why couldn't you save me Pete?" Jason asked quietly, and Peter's heart leapt into his throat.

"I did all I could," Peter croaked.

"No," Jason replied coldly, and he lifted his head, and his eyes were full of anger and betrayal, "No you didn't."

"Please," Peter whispered, "You've got to believe me..."

"Why should I?" Jason spat, climbing to his feet, "You hid yourself behind a lie, like always. You've lived so long in falsehood you've started to believe it yourself. Looking on as my mind and body were shattered, as I deteriorated into a shadow."

Jason advanced, and there was aura of palpable power around him, his anger literally coursing from him as a burning heat.

"Jason, please," Peter said, backing away, his hands raised in surrender, "I can't... Not... Don't do this..."

His voice cracked, and he cowered away into the corner, terror and self-doubt clouding his mind.

"You stood by and watched while I was broken," Jason said, and his voice had dropped to a strangled, furious whisper, "You did nothing to protect my sanity." he shuddering breath, and fell to his knees, his head in his hands. Peter cautiously approached, his hand outstretched.

"Jason, I-"

"NOW LOOK AT ME!" Jason howled, and he raised his head, which was now covered by Whisper's mask, but the Whisper that had replaced Carnage. The powerful, uncontrollable Whisper, who killed without restraint. Peter fell back, and desperately crawled away, as Whisper advanced slowly, a pistol clutched in his shaking fist. His eyes were wide and mad, and his whole body trembled with rage. Black tendrils of power spiralled away from his body, and his breathing was quick and shallow.

He grabbed Peter's face with a black tentacle, and yanked his head around, so that he was forced to stare straight into Whisper's eyes.

"There's only one thing left to do," Whisper said hoarsely, dropping his eyes so that he stared at the weapon in his hand. Peter's eyes widened.

"Jason! NO!" he cried out. But Whisper raised the pistol to his temple, and the sharp crack of the shot echoed around the room, and Peter awoke, crying out Jason's name.

…

He sat up, his body shaking, his eyes wet with tears. He was surprised to find he had been crying. A mirror in the corner glinted in the moonlight, and the room was completely silent.

Wait, silent?

Something was wrong, Rosie should still be dead to the world; she sleeps like a brick, and is not quiet as she does so. And so that begs the question, where is she?

Then Peter's eyes alighted on the open cupboard door, and Rosie clothes piles on the floor.

"Oh no," he breathed, scrambling out of the bed, pulling on a pair of jeans.

…

Dreamer's mobile vibrated in her pocket, and she was mildly shocked to discover she actually had it. As she ran, she fumbled for it, and fished it out. Peter's name glared at her from the screen, and a cold feeling settled in her stomach.

She touched the answer button, and placed the phone against her ear, whilst dropping another officer with a swift three-fingered jab to the solar plexus.

"Hey Pete," she said sheepishly, fighting to control her breath.

"Where the hell are you?" He snapped down the line, and Dreamer winced.

"Umm, I-" Dreamer stumbled across her words as she tried to think of an excuse, all the while keeping a wary eye on her pursuers.

Suddenly, a bullet streaked past her left ear, and Dreamer dropped to the ground with a yelp.

"Rosie!?" Peter shrieked, his voice on the edge of hysteria, "Was that a gunshot?!"

"No?" She said hopefully.

"What are you doing?" he asked furiously, "Why are you getting shot at?"

"Pete, can't really talk now," Dreamer said distractedly, "Have to call you back, love you, bye."

She ended the call, and turned to face her pursuers, who were cautiously approaching, several gun barrels pointed in her direction.

She planted her feet apart, lowering her centre of gravity, and raised her fists.

"Come on then boys," she called, "Let's make this interesting."

But, before she could strike, three gunshots rang out, and the officers crumpled to the floor. Dreamer yelped and leapt backwards. The blood pooled from the bullet holes, staining the asphalt roof scarlet.

"Take more care," a voice said, and Dreamer looked up to see a man, dressed in a heavy brown trench coat, and holding a small ceramic pistol. His hair was dark and tousled, and his eyes were hidden behind a white domino mask. His jaw was strong and square, dusted with a light splash of stubble. He spoke again, and his voice was measured and calm, "It is not your time to die tonight."

That shook Dreamer from her daze. The figure stepped back into the shadows thrown by air conditioning unit.

"Wait!" she called, scrambling after him toward the darkness. But when she reached the unit he was already gone. Below, she heard the revving of an engine, which quickly grew distant, before it faded altogether. Dreamer exhaled slowly, finally able to catch her breath. She was not looking forward to facing Peter though...

…

Mary-Jane Watson was in a foul mood. She had to stay late, as in, _really _late, for of her productions, only to be told she was getting dropped from the cast. _Then_, the taxi she had taken to get home had broken down, and now she had to walk the rest of they way, _and _it was starting to rain. Admittedly her house was only a block away but that was beside the point.

She finally arrived at her house, soaking, dripping water onto the welcome mat. She fumbled with her key, before inserting it into the lock and heaving the door open. She stood shivering in the hall, until she noticed a small envelope on lying in the hall. She kicked the door closed with her foot and scooped it up, her curiosity blanking out the cold.

Mary-Jane drew up a chair at her table and sat down, slitting open the envelope. Several pictures spilled out onto the table. Mary-Jane frowned, and she reached for the top-most photograph, and turned it over. Her brow furrowed further, as it seemed to be a picture of Whisper, with Black Cat draped all over him. She flipped over the next one; a picture of Whisper and Spiderman. She flipped over a few more, and they all depicted similar situations, until there were only two left. With a slight sense of apprehension, she flicked over the final two. Her eyes widened as she leapt of her chair, her hands over her mouth.

"No," she whispered, "No nononono."

She gave a wild laugh, "Oh nooo, you, no. This, this is not happening."

She collapsed onto her kitchen floor and put her head in her arms, half-sobbing, half-laughing.


	4. Chapter 4: The Silence Part I

**The Spectacular Spiderman: One Last Dance**

**The Silence, Part I**

* * *

"What were you _doing_?"

Rosie winced at the sharpness of Peter's tone, as he paced back and forth across the darkened bedroom. It had been a less than perfect return, creeping in through the open window to find Peter awake; sitting and waiting.

"What were you _thinking_?" he continued, waving Dreamer's mask at her accusingly, "Why the _hell _would you go out like this?"

He threw the mask to the floor, where it lay in a small heap, the empty lenses staring blankly up at her, whilst Peter glared at her. Rosie stuttered for a response.

"Pete... I- uh, I..." She said, tripping over the words as they left her mouth. She knew what needed to be said, but she failed to voice it, as if something was strangling the words as they reached her throat.

Peter ran a hand through his tousled brown hair, and gazed at Rosie with exasperation.

"It's... It's just," He said heavily, "I don't understand... why?"

There was anger in his voice, but his eyes revealed that there was hurt and betrayal too, both directed at her. The unsettling way these emotions blended together in Peter's eyes stripped Rosie of her ability to speak, and she simply stared at him, mute and helpless.

"Fine," Peter said shortly, sighing deeply and turning away, "If you're gonna play that game..."

"I did it for _you _Peter," Rosie blurted suddenly, her voice returning to her in a gush.

"What?" Peter said, swivelling to face her again, his expression sceptical.

"I did it for you," Rosie repeated, and a sudden feeling of exhaustion settled upon her shoulders, "You just seemed... so- I don't know... Upset..." She took a deep breath to steady herself, then plunged on.

"I just wanted to find out what had happened," she continued miserably, "So I went to the Bugle, and went to break in. Yes, to break in. I thought I'd disabled the alarm but then it went off, and the Police arrived and..."

Her voice tailed away, and she stared imploringly into Peter's face, and he gazed back, his face a blank, emotionless mask.

"Go to bed," he said flatly.

"But Pete-" Rosie started, but Peter held up a hand for her to stop, and she lapsed into silence.

"Go to bed," he re-iterated firmly but his expression had softened, "It's been a long night for the both of us, and you look exhausted."

Her shoulders slumped, and Rosie fought own the sudden urge to yawn. She _was _exhausted, the first return to her old costume had been less than enjoyable, unless one liked getting shot at of course. And now all she wanted to do was fall into her boyfriend's arms and fall asleep. She turned away and headed for the stairs, stifling yet another yawn.

Peter watched her as she climbed the stairs into the gloomy recesses of the top corridor, and he heard their bedroom door slam. He sighed and his legs folded beneath him, depositing him onto the sofa with a muffled thump. For quite some time, he gazed at the clock on the wall; looking, but not actually seeing. He was far too wrapped up in his own thoughts for anything else, even when his mobile chimed on the table, despite the fact no-one should be calling or texting him at two in the morning.

He never realised when his world blended into sleep's, but he realised he was asleep when he found himself standing in the sun-drenched Manhattan Central Park. This was no nightmare city however, this was more akin to the Manhattan Peter had grown up in; a bustling, energetic and vibrant place that was full of people.

He gazed around the park, and his eyes fell upon a lone figure, sitting casually in one of the park benches. They looked about Peter's age, with black hair, that had dark brown roots peeping through. They were dressed in a simple black shirt and grey jeans, and had one foot resting on the other knee. Peter approached the figure slowly, a smile creeping across his face.

"Jason?" He said, making sure he was very close to the person's ear. They leapt about a foot in the air, and Peter had a pleasing sense of Deja Vu.

"Bloody hell Pete," Jason said, swivelling to face his old friend, "Where the hell did you learn to creep up on people like that?"

Peter laughed and slid onto the bench beside him, and Jason readjusted to face forwards Peter again. He looked different. Older. His face was thinner, and more defined; the cheekbones higher, the jawline more angular. That, and both his eyes were now visible as the fringe was now swept around the eye sockets.

"So, how have things been your side?" Jason said, half smiling.

"My side?" Peter asked, bemused, "How do you mean?"

"Well," Jason said, "Your life, Spiderman, _etcetera." _

"Not... Not great really," Peter replied sadly, "I think it's all going south again."

"Which means?" Jason prompted, leaning forwards and listening intently.

"Well, er, I'd rather not..." Peter started, but then a new thought struck him, "Oh, what the hell. What's stopping me? This is only a dream, right?"

"Yeah," Jason replied shiftily, "Yeah a dream..."

Peter looked at his friend curiously, and Jason shook himself from his revelry.

"Sorry," he said, "Well- er, carry on then."

Peter recounted how he'd been able to give up Spiderman, and how the city seemed safe at last. He'd been able to move in with Rosie, and they were closer than ever now. Jason listened closely, displaying his trademark poker face, and Peter knew he would be turning over everything in his head, analysing it, and storing it away for later. Peter said how Harry had become cold and distant, and how Gwen had become the liaison for them both, but now Pete was seeing less of her too.

"What about MJ?" Jason interrupted, then he looked away, "Sorry, I shouldn't have..."

"It's okay," Peter said, cocking his head to one side, "And I think she's fine too. Rosie and her met up for coffee a few days ago and MJ seemed happy. You know she... She didn't take your death too well..."

Jason sighed and stared at the ground, playing with a lighter in his hands. Peter watched his fingers as they spun the small device around, and, every so often, his hand would make a small motion, reaching for his jeans pocket.

"I don't mind," Peter said, and Jason looked around, "You can."

"No," Jason said, "I don't... Well, not any more. Old habits ya know..."

Peter nodded slowly, quite impressed at how intricate this dream world was, if it was able to have created an entire story for Jason.

Peter continued on, telling Jason about Jonah's abnormal behaviour, and then the damning article that Jonah had pulled from somewhere. He described what had happened earlier, when Rosie ventured out as Hazardous Dreamer for first time in years. He also, a little shamefacedly, told Jason about his nightmares, and how, for some inexplicable reason, Peter it was all connected.

He finished a drew a breath, watching Jason a little nervously for his reaction.

"So," Jason said, and the flat, cold tone he spoke in surprised Peter, "You gave up Spiderman. Fair enough, but now, you got scared because of a bad dream and one bad newspaper story."

"Well, no but-"

"Do you know what I had to go through?" Jason demanded, and his voice was rising, the anger Peter had come to fear building, "I mean, I _killed _people, and I relived every death, over and over again, and every time, I had to go back out, face the world, a world that hated and despised me for what I had done. What was the point? Even I hated myself, why shouldn't they, right?"

"Jason, I-"

"I died!" Jason shouted, and he leapt from the bench, "Died! So you could continue this fucking fight and you give up because the Bugle called you names?! BIG FUCKING DEAL!"

"No! Jason please listen..."

"We're done here," Jason sneered, turning away, "It's pathetic. You have a problem? Deal with it, by any means."

Peter was torn from his dream and burst into the real world with a gasp. Sunlight streamed into the kitchen, and Peter shielded his eyes from the glare. He thought about what Jason had said in the dream, and realised he was, in part, right. Maybe he was being a little pathetic, Peter thought, but then again he really hated the idea of having to don the mask again, but his options were becoming more and more limited.

He put his head in his hands and sat there, the bright sun making the room glow about him, but Peter ignored it.

Upstairs, Rosie had also had a rather restless night. Despite her tiredness, she had lain awake for nearly two hours, before she had finally fallen into a light doze. Then she had been awoken by a noise from outside. She had crossed to the window, and peered out into the shadowy sky, to see a sight that chilled her to the core. There was a figure, crouched on the roof opposite, dressed in an all-black jumpsuit, complete with a full-face mask that obscured all, save for the eyes, which were hidden behind long, thin, blood-red lenses. The costume was complete with a long, jagged-edged cape that billowed around them, and a deep hood that hid most of their face. When Rosie had appeared at the window, the figure had stared at her for a split second, before retreating away into the recesses of the night.

It had been a long time before Rose had got back to sleep that night.

…

Elsewhere in the city, Wilson Fisk sat in the back on a stretched limo, a tablet clasped in his hands. The device looked comically small and flimsy in comparison to the massive fingers that encircled the device, and Fisk himself held it rather gingerly.

On the screen, a slightly delayed feed of the scientist, Herbert Landon was open.

"How are your findings proceeding Landon?"Fisk asked smoothly, his tone only implying the smallest hint of a threat.

"Quite well," Landon replied, the poor connection distorting his face and speech. He sounded mostly calm, but was obviously trying to suppress a sense of excitement.

"I've found the prototype designs for a powerful exoskeleton, which bonds to its user on a psychic level, allowing it to be controlled by mere thoughts. But.. uh... But that's not all, wait a moment..."

Landon's head dropped from the camera's field of view, and there was a static-like burst of noise as Landon rustled through papers scattered around on his desk. Then his head bobbed back into view and his face was flushed, but looked enthusiastic.

"This paper intrigued me the most. It's a detailed chemical drawing of a complex protein chain, as well as the details for a powerful mutagen."

"Fascinating," Fisk said, but his tone sounded bored, "This helps me how?"

"Well, the whole paper was labelled with these letters," the doctor continued, brandishing the sheet of paper at the camera, "C-R-N-G"

"Very good doctor," Fisk said, a satisfied smile curving his lips, "This is most pleasing. Continue as you were."

Fisk killed the connection and slid the tablet into a side pocket in the door, before settling back into the soft leather of the vehicle's chairs. The car's engine purred as it drove him smoothly toward his office at OSCORP. Fisk was still displeased about his situation at the corporation, but now a (hostile) takeover did not seem so far away, and with his new... ally, events seemed to be turning in his favour again. Fisk gazed absently out the window, toward the tower that reared against the blue skies, only a few blocks away now. Then he noticed something amiss.

On the roof, he could just make out a figure... no, two figures, clinging to the spire atop the massive structure. They were silhouetted against the sun, and their black outlines stood out sharply against the sparkling white glass construction of the tower. He frowned and leant forward, unhooking the intercom and thumbing the button to talk to his driver.

"Take me to the trade entrance if you please," Fisk ordered, his eyes fixed on the OSCORP roof. The figures had slipped away, or were being blocked by the looming expanse of steel and glass.

...

The limousine pulled into the grimy trade entrance, which was empty, save for the few pallets that were thrown haphazardly about the asphalt square, and a single, faintly rusted van, that looked as if it had not moved for several years.

Fisk stepped out the car, and his highly polished shoe came down into a pool of oily water. His lip curled and he leant down, wiping most of the thick substance from the leather with a white handkerchief, before folding it back into his pocket. He slammed the car door behind him, and quickly crossed the expanse of the car park, his ivory cane gripped in one hand. A small, rusted door stood ajar in the dirty brick wall, and Fisk pushed it open with a horrible screech. He had to stoop to fit his massive bulk through the door, and the collar of his white suit jacket brushed the door frame, leaving a faint orange/brown mark there.

Fisk strode purposefully across the corridor, heading to the reception, and then the elevators. The receptionist barely glanced up as Fisk passed, and simply uttered a polite, "Good morning Mr Fisk," as he brushed past her.

One of the elevators stood open, and Fisk stepped briskly inside, thumbing the button for his floor. The doors slid shut smoothly, and soft, chiming music filtered through the speakers, as the lift ascended the floors. After a few minutes, the doors slid open and a young intern in a faintly crumpled suit hurried inside, his glasses slightly askew, and his arms full of papers.

"Mornin'," he said, a little nervously, obviously intimidated by Fisk's abnormal height. Fisk nodded his acknowledgement, and stared straight ahead, until, after a few minutes and mush awkward coughing from him, the man finally spoke up again.

"Uh- beautiful weather we're having, right?" he said, accompanying the statement with a nervous laugh.

"Quite," Fisk answered flatly, as the doors parted in front of him, "Now if you'll excuse me, I believe this is my floor."

The man seem to trip over his own feet in his anxiety to get out of Fisk's way. Shaking his head, Fisk took the short distance in a few paces, and pushed to door to his office open. He examined the room with distaste, before motioning to walk to his desk. That's when the door was slammed behind him, even though Fisk hadn't closed it himself.

Fisk tensed, and with a lightning quick movement, lashed out behind him with the heavy top to his cane. His assailant caught the cane and threw it behind them, and then shoved him over the desk, sending Fisk sprawling into the chair.

The figure came out of the shadows, and then another joined them, and Fisk quickly examined them. The one who had pushed him was tall, and well-built; Fisk could see the muscles rippling beneath the black jumpsuit he was wearing. His companion was shorter and more slender, a woman, but, like her partner, she was obviously in peak condition; she had the body of an Olympic gymnast. They were both dressed almost identically; black jumpsuits, long capes that hung from their shoulders to the floor, and masks that covered their faces, aside from the red lenses over their eyes. The only difference is that the woman's arms and legs were bare, and her mask had larger lenses.

"What is this?" Fisk asked derisively, straightening his tie and smoothing the creases from his trousers, "The Whisper fan club?"

The woman leapt onto the desk and grabbed Fisk's collar, pulling his face close to hers.

"We know what you were," she breathed, her eyes narrowed to poisonous slits, "And what you did. Now, your reckoning is coming, and it's coming soon."

"We are the ones who will wash scum like you from the streets," the man growled, his arms folded.

"We are the ones who will tear your world apart," she hissed, and the two spoke in unison, "We are the Silence."

The woman let go of his lapels and pushed Fisk to the floor, before she slid off the desk and pushed open the wide pane of glass that made up Fisk's window. Before she leapt out, she turned back to the crime-boss and said;

"Expect more of us from now on. We're watching you, and if you step out of line, we will come down on you like nothing you've ever felt before."

With that, both she and her partner dived from the room, throwing their capes out wide and gliding away.

Fisk watched them go calmly, before pulling out his mobile phone and hitting the speed dial.

He put the phone to his ear, and listened while it connected, and then Landon's came through the speaker.

"Yes?"

"I need it completed sooner, I'm afraid recent events have called for me to move up the time line. We're being watched..."

* * *

**There it is, at long last. I've been sat on this chapter for quite some time; writing it, reading it, deleting, editing, fixing, re-reading and repeat... So yeah, that's why it took so long... Sorry. I hope people still like this, it does seem a tad less popular than WCYT, but then maybe people just don't like sequels. Anyway, cheers for reading. **

**~Europiam**


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